It is far more unpleasant for me to write these lines than it can possibly be for any one to read them.
“I think,” said Mr Dewar, the navigating sub-lieutenant, as he entered the captain’s cabin after a preliminary service tap at the door—“I think I’ve done all for the best, and done right, sir.”
“Well?” replied Captain Wayland—captain by courtesy, remember, for he really was but a first lieutenant by rank, though in command of the bold and saucy Bunting. He was seated now in his beautiful little saloon, which was situated right aft, right abaft the gun-room or ward-room—the Bunting had, of course, only one living deck, under that being the holds, and above it the main or upper deck, with no other covering except the sky, and now and then a sun awning. This last was not only a luxury but a positive necessity in these seas, where the sun blisters the paint, causes the pitch in the seams to bubble and boil, and takes the skin as effectually off one’s face as if a red-hot iron were passed over it.
I have called Captain Wayland’s quarters a beautiful little saloon. So it was, but do not imagine, dear reader, that the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty had anything to do with the decorating of it. No, they supplied a table, cushioned lockers, and a few chairs, also cushioned, but so hot and clumsy that sitting on one was like sitting on a large linseed-meal poultice.
Captain Wayland returned them to the dockyard, and bought himself others that could boast of elegance and comfort; he re-painted his saloon, too, and hung a few tasteful pictures in it and no end of curtains, to say nothing of a great punkah over the table, which was waving back and fore now, the propelling power being a little curly-headed nigger-boy who squatted in a far-off corner, string in hand.
“Well, sir,” replied Mr Dewar, in answer to the captain’s single word of inquiry, “I’ve douced every glim.”
“In mercy’s name,” cried the captain, “do speak English, Mr Dewar!”
“Well, sir, pardon me, I quite forgot myself, but really we’ve got into a slangy habit in the ward-room; the only one who does speak decent English is young Milvaine, and he is a Highland Scotchman.”
“Sit down,” said the captain, “and have a glass of claret. You’ll find it good.”
“Raggy Muffin!” he continued, turning half round in his easy chair.